


Devil to Pay

by filenotch



Category: Lucifer (Comic), The Sandman, The X-Files
Genre: M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-04-23
Updated: 1998-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:10:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filenotch/pseuds/filenotch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His usual fare is pizza and pornography on the couch, but Mulder tries a new restaurant in Georgetown in search of something different, and he catches the piano player's eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devil to Pay

Masque is the name on the door, picked out by discreet down-lighting from a hidden source. Tiny faces embedded in the artwork look out at him, their jeweled eyes winking in the glow. The winks are conspiratorial, as if the faces know this is not like Mulder, to give up the sleazy easiness of his evenings. His usual fare is pizza and pornography on the couch, not dinner at an expensive restaurant.

The door belongs to a house which stands out from the commercial buildings surrounding it. This district is no longer residential, hasn't been for half a century. The towered Victorian is an anachronism, but it started the conversion of this Georgetown neighborhood when it became a law office fifty years ago. Mulder likes anachronisms and odd juxtapositions. The law office is now a restaurant only lawyers can afford.

The New Orleans style food is supposed to be good enough not to need an added attraction, but Masque has one. In reference to its name, the staff wear masks, all different, ranging from simple dominos to those modeled on Medieval Carnival disguises. The Post reviewer assumes it is a reference to Mardi Gras, but Mulder hopes it is something more. He also hopes that the food lives up to its review, that the bar lives up to its description, and that the interesting gimmick which brought him here lives up to its strangeness.

He enters a small foyer, carpeted in a dark color. The lighting is subtle, softened by candles, the natural and the unnatural reflecting warmly in cream paneled walls. The hostess moves to greet him, and her appearance is striking. She wears a smooth white mask over the entire left half of her face, its only opening a small oval that outlines her eye. The hair above the masked half is short and blond, but chestnut waves reach to the other shoulder of a high-collared dress. The half-face she shows is fine-featured and exquisite.

"How very Phantom of the Opera," Mulder says beneath his breath, but there is no Scully there to catch his joke. The hostess has heard. The place is too quiet for her to have missed that at all, but she merely stares at him. Mulder shrinks into his suit jacket a little; he thinks to himself that she's probably heard that one a hundred times, and wishes momentarily that he had been more original, or at least held his tongue.

When she speaks it is as if the mask constrains her lips. Out of one side of her mouth she asks, "Reservation?" The restricted slur in the voice gives her a sinister quality that startles Mulder.

"I was, uh, hoping to just eat in the bar."

"This way," she says, but around the impediment of her mask it sounds more like, "Thish vey."

She leads him past a stairway, which he knows from the review leads to private dining rooms on the second floor. They approach a double doorway, and Mulder hears piano music, muted until now. He whistles soundlessly at the cost of the sound proofing and the acoustic design necessary to keep the music confined to this room. Expensive. He mentally adds two dollars to the price he expects to pay for a drink.

The lounge and bar manage to seem both large and cozy, accommodating a concert grand and perhaps thirty people without feeling crowded. The subdued lighting from the foyer has been carried through to this room, and the candles gleam brilliantly in the lacquered top of the grand piano.

He crosses the room as if he belongs here, trying to pretend he does this all the time. He quotes some nonsense, The Jabberwocky is his current favorite and the upholstery makes him think of mimsey borogroves, which helps to unhinge his mind from the moment and smooth his journey to the bar.

The bar itself is of dark, rich wood, and the high chairs have been upholstered in the same floral pattern as the other seats. Mulder eases himself into one at the end, and the bartender quickly attends him. The man is wearing a feathered mask with thin plumes hanging down to frame his chin. The mask cocks briefly in inquiry.

"Coke, and a menu, thanks."

The bartender says nothing but moves quickly.

The menu comes first, without prices listed, which somehow makes Mulder less hungry. He scans it, his brow furrowed slightly, avoiding the turtle soup -- a guilty favorite, according to the reviewer -- and anything crawfish. But he has come for N'awlins cooking, and finally settles on a traditional gumbo. The bartender takes his order and hands him his Coke silently. The feathers obscure his mouth, so Mulder cannot tell whether the man is smiling or scowling, but his eyes gleam brightly among the plumes, and Mulder thinks he might enjoy working as anonymously.

What if everyone at the FBI wore Lone Ranger masks? He leans back to get comfortable, amused at the image, stretching it and dressing Skinner as Captain America, Scully as Bat Girl. The humor relaxes him further, and he unbuttons his jacket before he remembers his gun. He should have left the damn thing in the car. He shrugs to himself, and pulls on the coat to keep it hitched up as he looks around.

The clothing of the crowd speaks of money, as tasteful and subtle as the music weaving across the floor. He looks at the piano player, the only employee who is not masked, perhaps a patron amusing himself. He wears a suit that complements the dull black of the instrument -- an off white linen the same color as ivory keys. His blazingly white shirt seems almost too bright against the soft cream. The lid of the grand is closed and on it is a brass candelabra. Mulder finds the decoration ironic, and wonders whether it was meant to be.

The man at the keyboard is pale gold and red blond. Mulder wishes he could see his hands, and assumes from the skillful playing that they are large and broad. There is an impression of strength in the wide-set shoulders. It is just the build he likes, the type he likes, with a face that in youth must have been androgynous, but has settled into flawless masculinity with age. How old? There are no lines to give clues, but the air of the player speaks of a man comfortable with himself. That sort of self-confidence has always drawn Mulder, who often finds his body to be a conveyance for his brain, and not always a convenient one. He finds it too long and too thin, and far too demanding far too often.

The melody coming out from the piano is almost familiar. Mulder thinks he should be able to name it, but can't quite catch the tune. When memory finally presents the cue card he nearly laughs out loud. It is "A Few of My Favorite Things" twisted around a Bossa Nova beat. He likes the sense of humor, and his interest in the piano player kicks up a notch.

He is still smiling as his dinner arrives. The bartender's eyes smile back out of the feathers as he places the plate in front of Mulder, arranging damask napkin and gleaming silver flatware. For the first time he speaks. "Another Coke, perhaps some wine?"

Wine. He'll probably pay as much for one glass as for a bottle elsewhere, but he decides that another Coke will only worsen his usual insomnia. "Is there a house red?" he asks.

"Merlot or Cabernet?"

"Merlot, thanks." A nod marks the bartender's return to silence.

The gumbo sends up a rich scent, and at the first taste the word piquant comes to mind. It is not a usual part of his vocabulary, but it fits. The peppers are slightly bitter, the sausage deep and complex and not like anything he's had before. Even the okra slides on his tongue in a way which demands attention, appreciation.

His concentration on the food is broken by the arrival of his wine and a change in the music. The pianist is weaving a slow, romantic and vaguely Russian sounding waltz around the melody of "Hernando's Hideaway". This time Mulder chuckles softly, amused by the facility with which the man twists melody and style, and he glances around the room to see whether anyone else notices. They do not seem to, and Mulder thinks wryly that it isn't the first time he has been the only one in a room to know what's really going on.

Not quite the only one, though. The golden man at the piano catches his eye, and they share small, private smiles.

Mulder forces his thoughts back to the food before him, and away from images of the man undressing, away from imagining perfect skin and large, strong hands. Gumbo. He came here to get away from pizza and pornography.

But the gumbo is sensual and rich, layered over rice which is itself white and perfect. If cheap porno goes with bad pizza, what kind of sex should go with this food? The answer is instantaneous: The sex he really wants. He makes do with sex the same way he does with food, going only for what he can afford. It is not a cost in dollars, but in potential damage. Given who he is he might only put a lover in danger, so he makes do with what is anonymous and out of town. It is easier with men, but that could cost him his job. Either way, it is not really what he wants. Definitely not what he wants.

The parallels begin to amuse him. Pizza is easy to get, and so is generic porn. He doesn't eat the crust of the pizza, and he fast forwards over the more predictable scenes. Another mouthful of stew only continues his thoughts. This is what he really wants -- complex, layered, and slightly spiced.

The sly music distracts him again, and after a few seconds he recognizes the Eurythmics' "Sweet Dreams", played in a broad stride piano style. He smiles to himself and finishes the last two mouthfuls, glad he gave himself the evening out. He is usually indifferent to what he eats, as long as it serves, but only because he must be. This is what he wishes he could have.

He reaches for the wine, then hesitates, not yet willing to wash away the spice on his tongue. He savors it a moment more, then bids it good bye with the smooth slip of aged fruit and wood. By the time he sets his glass down again, the music is coming to a typical stride resolve, and for the first time since he entered the bar, it comes to a close.

Voices stand out in the silence, for there is no applause, but they are muffled by the plush furnishings and the quiet is brief. Soft, innocuous jazz floats up from hidden speakers, and Mulder decides that his timing was good. Without the piano he is not interested in sitting here alone with another drink. He tries to catch the bartender's eye to get the bill, but before he succeeds the piano player slides into the seat next to him.

A glance is not enough; Mulder wants to stare. The face is without lines and, it seems, without pores. Reddish and golden, his hair falls in layers to the collar of what is clearly an expensive suit. He glances again and Mulder finds himself looking hastily away from eyes of a deep indigo blue.

Without having made any request that Mulder could see the man is served an amber liquid in a small snifter. The masked bartender then gathers Mulder's empty soup plate and glass, and asks if he can get him anything else.

He is torn between requesting the bill and leaving, or taking another glass of Merlot and trying to start a conversation with the intriguing piano player.

The decision is made when a richly layered tenor says, "Give him one of these, Scott."

An opening, and suddenly Mulder is just a little nervous. He doesn't know how to act. He manages to respond in a voice only Scully would know was strained, "Thank you. I've been enjoying your playing."

"I could tell. It's nice to have someone actually hear what I'm doing."

Mulder's drink arrives, and he raises it in salute. With a boldness he hopes won't sound stupid he toasts, "To comic genius." He hopes his look softens the overstatement.

The small, private smile appears again on well-shaped lips, the blue eyes dance on the wicked end of mischievous, and the toast is returned: "To the only one tonight who gets the joke."

They sip, and Mulder's tongue floods with heat and peat smoke. He assumes it is expensive. He assumes it is an acquired taste. By the third sip, he has acquired the taste.

There is a moment of silence between them, until Mulder can't help but pose the question, "How do you get to be the only employee without a mask?"

"Easy. I'm not an employee."

Mulder thinks his first supposition was right after all, that this is a patron showing off. Yet he knows the bartender by name.... His brain catches on to his gaffe immediately, and he is relieved to see that the man seems not to have taken offense. He corrects himself. "You own the place."

"I do. Care to see the rest of it?"

All the signals are there -- the flash of eye contact and then the appraising glance down then back up. The intent is clear. He is being cruised by someone who has little use for flirtation. Seduced as much by the memory of his dinner as by the fresh taste of smoky liquor, his mouth says, "Yes," before his halted brain can interrupt. His lips quirk at the man as much as at his earlier thoughts about the culinary parallels to his sex life. He is saying yes to almost anything, simply on the basis of a plate of gumbo.

And the fact that no one in the room looks at all familiar.

Then he feels stupid again. "I'm sorry. Mulder," he says, extending a hand in introduction, "Fe--" Out of habit he had begun to say Federal Bureau of Investigation, but he catches himself and changes it slightly, grabs the only straw available: "Fox Mulder."

"Sam," the man answers, and the hand that takes Mulder's is warm and strong and just as he imagined it would be. He almost loses the next bit. "Sam Lux. Nice to meet you, Fox."

Mulder smiles from the corner of his mouth and shakes his head slightly. "Please, just Mulder," he says quietly, hoping, as he always does, that he won't be asked to explain. "Ahh, I assume that's a stage name?" he continues. He isn't asked to explain, which gratifies him, and Sam nods, "Of course," but to which point Mulder isn't sure.

Mulder wonders momentarily what name would fit, for the pedestrian "Sam" certainly does not. But he is rising, holding his drink and Mulder can only get up to follow, realizing that Lux is very tall and has half a head on him. They thread through the lounge towards the double doors and the stairway beyond.

Some movement makes Mulder glance back before following Sam Lux up to the second floor. From the foyer the masked side of the hostess' face is turned toward him, and the glint from beneath the eye slit strikes him as possibly unfriendly. No, it's worse than that, and he turns away uneasily to find the deep blue eyes looking down at him from the upstairs railing. The appraising glance somehow both deepens and diffuses the uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades from the masked watcher below.

Snifter in hand he sends his feet up the risers, pausing on the landing to look at the man waiting for him. He is standing casually, looking like an expensive model. Mulder's breath catches slightly, and he hopes to hell he hasn't misread the signals. If he has, it is going to be a long night.

The second floor is decorated much like the first, with dark carpet, cream walls and candles. The hall is narrower and a few doors lead off. Two are closed against the sound of private parties, and two more lead into opulent private dining rooms connected to the kitchen by dumbwaiters.

Lux is talking -- he can't think of him as Sam, it is beyond inappropriate -- and Mulder takes in the details as he points them out. There are mentions of period moldings and wallpaper, antique tables and chairs. Mulder asks the right questions and gives the right compliments, but only to keep the man talking. His senses and his body are being played, teased, strummed like piano wire, by the rich voice and its unplaceable accents.

At last they come to the door marked "Private", and Lux opens a hidden wall panel to make three quick taps on a key pad of numbers. There is the metallic clunk, muted, of a heavy automatic lock, and the door opens to reveal another set of stairs.

"I live up here."

This is the moment to back out, if he's going to. He doesn't, but raises his eyebrows and misquotes softly, "Into the valley rode the six hundred." Tennyson. The valley of death, the Little Death, he thinks. And isn't the cannon bit a little obviously phallic?

Lux smiles at the reference, but answers only, "After you."

The steps are dimly lit, and they emerge into a large attic studio. Mulder sips his nearly forgotten scotch to busy his hands as Lux lights candles until there is just enough light to see that the theme of quiet wealth is continued. Mulder is acutely aware of the weight of his gun and of the FBI ID, and another pressure making itself known as well. He glances around and finally asks, "Bathroom?"

Lux pauses in running his fingers over the CD collection, indicating a direction with his chin. "Be my guest."

Mulder sets down his drink and finds the door, and the light switch, and is entirely impressed. The bathroom is built into the house's tower, and there are no straight lines. The shower is unconventional, without door or curtain, but rather a short spiral of glass brick. The rest of the room is similarly convenient and unusual. It hardly seems like a place to piss, but Mulder does, washes his hands, and looks at himself in the mirror.

The face that looks back has no idea why he is here, or what the elegant Sam Lux sees that he, Mulder, does not. He can't have read this wrong -- the man has just lit candles for Christ's sake. So he assumes he knows what is going to happen, and he takes off his suit jacket and his shoulder holster, and hides the gun in the folds of cloth.

When he comes out, Lux has shed his jacket, too, and unbuttoned the too-white tab collared shirt rather more than necessary. Yes, he has read this right, and all Mulder's experience of silent fucks and anonymous blow jobs has not prepared him for this. Do they kiss? With a woman he would know, but with a man in these circumstances he has no clue.

He sets his jacket on a chair he suspects is older than the Constitution, and picks up his snifter again. Drinking is something to do, and the scotch is something to talk about. "Very smooth."

"I tend to like the smokier single malts. This one has a bit too much burning peat bog for most people."

"I like it." Pause. What to say next? Nice place? It is nice, but there is something about it that lacks true personality. He is suddenly sure that everything he sees, from the oriental carpets to the blend of antique and modern furniture, is, like the name Sam Lux, a convenience.

So this is anonymous, really, the same way the chef in a restaurant kitchen can be as anonymous as the pizza boy. Suddenly he knows what to do, and the pretense of looking at the CD cases brings him closer to Lux. Close enough to feel body heat and take in the scent of the other man, light and sweet and hinting, unusually, of open air. The smokiness of the scotch is a sharp counternote.

Their eyes meet, and now intent is unmistakable. Of its own volition, seemingly, Mulder's hand reaches for the other's flank. There is a warmth under the splay-fingered contact that halts him momentarily, but when Lux's hand touches his shoulder, he is energized again.

They move closer and slowly flesh is exposed, tasted, smoothed. They do not kiss. It seems an unnecessary intimacy. They move toward the bed with little awkwardness, shedding shoes and trousers with hardly more. Mulder feels he has the right to stare now, and the body before him requires, demands, appreciation. Animate marble, sculpted, created, even the hairs perfectly placed.

He is not allowed to look for long, but the impression remains on his retina even as Lux bears him backwards on the bed. The pianist's hands explore him, and Mulder treasures the sound of his layered saxophone voice saying, "You are very beautiful."

Nothing happens quickly. Mulder thinks of food again, for this is the slow simmering that he has always wanted. Because Lux is unselfconscious, he must also be. As he has never been before, he is without shame, giving himself up to his senses.

Then there is oil and entry and Mulder giving quiet voice to exquisite pain. Ineffable pleasure follows, and for the first time he can look into the face of the man who gives him this. To Mulder's eyes, Lux glows with the sheen of sweat and candle light. The air is musked with the dark earth scent of the oil, and with Mulder's own desire. Except for the reflection of light on moisture, Lux seems to be making no effort at all, and slowly, inexorably, they finish together.

Then comes separation, a moment Mulder dreads, for he cannot simply pull up his trousers and leave. Nor does he want to. One lingers after a meal like this, has coffee or port or a scotch. But he does want to clean himself, and with a kiss to Lux's abdomen he rises and pads across the big studio to the bathroom.

Lux follows him in, reaching for the wall switch first and bringing up dimmer lights than Mulder had found before.

"Shower?"

"Sure," and Mulder follows the tall, lean body through the spiral of glass brick into a chamber with two shower heads. Lux turns on one, and gestures toward the other, and Mulder is disquieted by the implication that this room was meant for two, intimate, but not. And that Mulder himself is just a visitor.

Then he sees the scars.

They jag in thick parallels on the upper back, and the muscles around look slightly wrong. How had he missed them, this raking mar on the perfect body? He will not ask where they came from. He will not ask.

Lux turns off the water, leaving Mulder to finish washing with barely a look. He is almost done, and delays only a minute to smooth his face, shake off the shock of the scars. Good manners are the least he owes his host.

When he emerges from the spiral, Lux is waiting with a towel for him. They dry off, occasionally smiling at each other, and finally, just before the awkwardness of deciding whether to dress and go or to stay, Lux asks gently, "Stay? Do you have anywhere to be tomorrow?"

"Work."

And he doesn't ask Mulder what he does. "When do you need to be up?"

"Early. Maybe... Maybe I should go."

"I'll get you up, and give you breakfast." There is a pause, as the blue, blue eyes gauge Mulder's indecision to a nicety. "I'm tempting you, aren't I?"

"You are." Mulder smiles his best little boy grin, the one that always gets to Scully, simply because he's happy. Lux wants him to stay, and it is a nice warm feeling in his chest. And morning may bring other possibilities. "Are you sure six isn't too early?"

Lux's answering look is dazzling; he has read Mulder again. "Will that leave time for...?"

"I'd, um, factored that in."

A pause, a slow smile. "Are you ready to sleep?"

"Almost."

They take the snifters to bed and finish drinking the scotch in a silence that is comfortable rather than furtive. Mulder takes it all in, from the taste of smoke to the sweetest sex he can ever recall. He is actually going to sleep with the man he just had sex with, and that has rarely happened before. He downs his last sip of liquor, sets the glass aside, and slides down under the covers. Lux follows him deep into the bed, and encourages Mulder to turn on his side. He feels the longer limbs of his bedmate spoon around him, and Mulder wonders whether he can sleep, his heart is so light.

And he knows it can be better, dares to think that this might be the first of many, tentatively hopes this may be more than just another one night stand. It is only a fleeting hope.

There is also something weird here, and he always trusts his sense of weird. What could have made the scars? His mind cannot help but speculate, but eventually he does sleep.

Before dawn he is wakened by a dream so vivid and strange that it takes him moments to orient himself, remember where he is. They have changed positions during the night, and it is Mulder who faces toward Lux's back.

The back and its scars bring back the dream.

In the dream he was disembodied, a camera, yards away from a free-standing Gieger-esque structure. He knew, somehow, that it was a gate to Hell. Two figures were before the gate, talking, too far away to be heard. They were the only real things in this tableau, and even Mulder's camera eye somehow wasn't there.

Lux, garbed in white cloth, stood with huge black leather wings rising out of his back. He faced an even taller man, gaunt, shadowed, dressed in black with skin whiter than humanly possible. He knew who they were, with the certainty of dreams. Sam Lux was Satan, and the man in billowing black was Morpheus, Lord of Dreams. Lux locked the last gate with a large, rough key. Mulder knew, with the logic of dreams, that he was watching Satan's abdication.

A third figure joined them -- a demon female, with half her face and neck raw flesh and sinew, showing the white line of trachea and the crumbling of a rotting brain. Impossibly, the ear remained attached to the ruin, pierced with a golden ring. The other half of her face was whole, malevolently lovely, and framed by chestnut waves.

She drew her knife, placed it into Lux's outstretched hand, and he reached with the other to draw her close. Mulder thought it was to kill, but instead they kissed. Suddenly, like a zoom lens, his view was close up, and he could see their tongues entwined through the ruin of her cheek.

He could hear the words as Satan pushed her away, turned her from him and said firmly, "Good-bye, Mazikeen." She began to fade where she stood, and when she was only an outline: "You are very beautiful."

Lux handed the demon's knife to Morpheus and turned his back. Mulder's view was once more distant, and he watched the pale Lord of Dreams cut the wings off the former Lord of Hell. Satan crouched, curled in on himself and only raised his head to howl in pain as first one leather wing, then the other fell.

But this was Sammael, the angel whose pride brought the Fall. When it was finished he rose, utterly contained despite blood streaming from the long gashes on his back.

The last thing Mulder saw before he woke was Satan handing Morpheus the Key to Hell, a wicked smile making clear that this was no well-meant gift.

Only when he wakes does Mulder feel anything, and then only a sense of unease. A dream. It was only a dream, but the long scars on Lux's back are right there in front of him, confounding the fantasy. It cannot just be overactive imagination, or can it? His unease threatens to grow to alarm, but he tries to shake it off, and reaches out, sliding his palm over Lux's hip. Desire stirs, fueled by the memory of last night and the rising adrenaline. He wants to touch, to know....

He almost jerks away when he feels the large strong hand over his own, but surprise yields to pleasure as Lux guides Mulder's hand, showing him what he wants.

And again there is oil and entry, with Lux on his knees and Mulder in wonder behind him, slowly and unashamedly sharing this pleasure. It is as unhurried as the night before, but urgency finally captures him. So close, he is so close to the peak he barely hears the noise, nearly misses the shift in the mattress as another body slowly adds weight to the bed.

But Lux reacts.

Light comes from nowhere, and Mulder sees the half-faced demon of his dream, and he knows her as the hostess unmasked. She is a few feet from him, holding ready a black serrated knife, her attack interrupted by the burst of light. One eye is lidless and staring, the mouth beneath it sneering half the grimace of a skull's teeth and half twisted lips. Despite the scene Mulder is too close and is already beginning to come.

Heedless of their position Lux rises, dislodging Mulder and shouting, "Mazikeen!" Mulder is helpless to do anything but fill the condom with his seed, his hand instinctively both finishing and protecting, too embarrassed by the ignominy to be frightened. Lux pulls the demon off the bed before she can do what her mismatched eyes promise, leaving Mulder in the aftermath of orgasm and in the realization that from this moment on, he will probably see that ruined countenance every time he comes.

He can hear the struggle. "Jealous bitch!" Lux growls as he drags Mazikeen bodily from the room. She is yelling something in her slurring voice which sounds suspiciously like a threat to eat Mulder's face.

Beside Mulder on the bed is the knife, dropped and forgotten, one of the skulls of the hilt staring blindly up at him. He stares blindly back at the blade that removed Satan's demon wings.

Lux returns and on his face is an expression of almost petty maliciousness, coupled with an anger that craves an outlet. He is still erect, and chooses that weapon. Mulder's self-defense training lies dormant under a deep layer of shock, and he neither protests nor assists as Lux forces him onto his hands and knees.

There is an impossible combination of hard marble and smooth silk, slick -- Mulder's analytical mind wonders how -- and demanding. Sensation courses up through his spinal cord and floods his vision with images. A new image slides into his brain with every thrust, and his body responds despite himself, ratcheting pleasure up a notch with each one.

_He sees the Gates of Hell again, and the parting, and feels the crushing boredom that fueled the decision to leave. Then he moves backwards in time to see Lux, Lucifer, Satan Lightbringer, the angel Sammael._

_He sees Him ruling Hell, with his angel's face and his demon's wings, overseeing torture and punishment, debauching with a hundred thousand vicious, conniving demons, and Mulder realizes that this man knows sin so great that a night of sodomy is merely a whisper._

_He sees Him using every means He knows, every weapon at his disposal to defy the One who threw Him out of heaven, fomenting discord and hiding the truth with intelligent lies._

_He sees finally the Rebellion, the pride of Lucifer's stance. He knows the agony as the feathers of an angel's wings are ripped out by the sheer velocity of the Fall, never to re-grow, the membranes remaining destined to turn into the dark and leathern things cut off by Dream._

He sees nothing more his mind can comprehend, but the last and deepest impression hits with the force of another orgasm, and this one shared -- the memory of the lost union with God.

And in that sustained and blinding, awful flash, Mulder knows he will never use the words agony or ecstasy again.

***

He wakes without remembering passing out, starts up to check the time and calms when he learns it's seven-ten. He can make it.

He is alone, he is sure. Was it real? He is unsure. He wanted the theme of masks to mean more, and between the masks and the scars his brain could have concocted a vivid dream. That wouldn't be anything new.

As he rolls from the bed he sees that coffee and pastries are laid out on silver. His suit is nearby, neatly draped on a chair with a new shirt and underwear, his gun hanging from the back. When he reaches the bathroom, there are a razor, soap, and towels waiting.

The Devil is a gentleman.

Mundane issues of bathroom and breakfast are comforting, a normal routine despite the unfamiliar surroundings. He pauses only to stare in the mirror again, and he hears an echo of that voice:

"You are very beautiful."

Is he like Mazikeen, whatever she was? What corruption in him makes him beautiful to Satan? He shudders at the thought. He doesn't know, or want to know. He knows too much already, if any of it was real. If any of it was real, Milton was full of shit. Not better to rule in Hell... He suddenly has a parallel for the foolishness of the Consortium who wish to rule a hell on Earth.

He finds a back door that leads to a separate stairway, and lets himself out. The drive to FBI headquarters is automatic. He is able to park and walk inside as if nothing strange has occurred, as if he is who they think he is. He is again simply a passenger in his body until a voice asks, "Where were you last night?" Scully. "I called your apartment."

"I had my cell phone with me." He looks down at her, and he is momentarily taken aback. She looks so normal.

"It wasn't important, really. Did you have fun?"

The question is innocent innuendo and business-like probe combined. Mulder cannot answer quickly, and his eyes are drawn to the small gold cross she always wears. Before the silence stretches too long he says, "I went out for dinner in Georgetown. That place in the paper last week. Masque." "Oh." She seems slightly surprised. It was out of character for him, after all. "How was it?"

"The food..." The sex. "The food is incredible."

"I hear it's expensive."

With her words he realizes he never saw the bill. He never saw the bill, but he'll be paying for this for a very long time. He tries to smile at her in a casual way, fearing his eyes must give him away. They ache with the memory of dreams and visions and long, jagged scars.

He answers carefully.

"Damned expensive."

**Author's Note:**

> The scene of Lucifer's abdication is taken nearly verbatim from DC Comics' "Sandman" issue #23, written by Neil Gaiman. It can be found in the collection "Sandman: Season of Mists" at many book stores and comic shops. Other particulars of this Satan and Mazikeen are Gaiman's as well, and belong to DC Comics. You should read them.
> 
> Fox Mulder is the creation of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions.
> 
> No one makes any money off of this unless someone is inspired to buy "Season of Mists."
> 
> This work owes much to whitecrow, who edited it into shape and suggested some of the better turns of phrase, and to the people of the old Slash and Burn e-list, who helped polish the remaining rough spots.
> 
> For Deb.


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